


Almost

by jottingprosaist (jane_potter)



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-04-26 07:44:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4996369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jane_potter/pseuds/jottingprosaist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter, Nightingale, and a hospital bed, at some point a few years down the road.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Almost

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pigeonfancier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pigeonfancier/gifts).



> Written for the prompt of an “I almost lost you” kiss by pigeonfancier on tumblr (http://jottingprosaist.tumblr.com/post/130979853675/khirsahle-send-me-a-number-and-a-pairing-and). HMU with prompts if you like?

I’d known when I joined the Met that my chances of ending up in the hospital during my career were pretty much the same as a footballer’s odds: that is, 100%. Still, I hadn’t gambled on being hospitalized so often. Or on quite so many telekinetically hurled cars.

Being the frequent flier that I was, I figured out that I was in a hospital bed before I was properly conscious: the pinch of a heart monitor around one’s index finger is a uniquely identifiable sensation. The hiss-click of a ventilator and the tracheal tube entering through my mouth were new, though.

My eyelids didn’t really want to lift, so I didn’t make them. I was, however, curious to know who was holding my hand. Due no doubt to the good drugs, it wasn’t pressing curiosity or even mildly involved curiosity: just, Oh, somebody’s holding my hand, wonder who that is.

The hands were warm, at any rate, both clasped around my right one. One thumb was pressed firmly into the hollow below my wristbone and the other was stroking back and forth across my wrist just above. Between the exhaustion and the medication– though that’s not to undersell the stroking itself– it made me tingly all over.

There was the creak of a chair, then a long, tired exhale. The distant corner of my brain that was processing information said: Nightingale.

Hot breath whooshed over the back of my hand. It took me a long moment to process the scratching sensation as that of Nightingale’s stubble, and even longer to realize that that meant it was his lips pressed to my knuckles. The kiss went on for a good while, though, so I had plenty of time to just experience it.

Ideally, I should have twitched my fingers, and Nightingale would have glanced up to find me looking back, awake and alive. Instead, the drugs being so excellent, what happened was that while Nightingale sat with his head bowed over my hand, I fell back to sleep.


End file.
